The Book Maker
by itsravensfault
Summary: Spoilers for series two. John Watson lost his best friend, but the worst part is no one remembers him even being alive. Something strange happens to him after a particularly bad day and John learns that he has to stop a crazed criminal before he steals away everyone that is close to him. Possible Johnlock in later chapters. You have been warned.
1. Chapter 1

**Hey everyone! I don't know why I'm starting a new story, I can barely keep up with the two I have on now but oh well. This is something that popped in to my head and I almost forgot it, so I wrote it down and now I'm posting it. Here is a disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock. Lots of other people do though. Anyway I hope you all enjoy it. It really is just for fun. We'll meet again at the bottom. See ya.**

John Watson was standing in the middle of the sidewalk, on Baker Street, looking up at his old living room window. He dropped his head to the door that had 221 B on it. It brought back so many memories just to look at it. He hasn't been back to the flat for months, ever since he had to bury his best friend, Sherlock Holmes.

He shook his head; it was still fresh in his mind. The note, the fall, all of it hit him hard whenever he thought of it. John licked his lips and glanced around the sidewalk one more time before turning. He heard the door open and looked at it with hope in his chest. He didn't know why he was expecting Sherlock to be standing there.

It was Mrs. Hudson; she had a worried look on her face. She usually had one when she was around John. Luckily John was barely around her anymore. He couldn't take the looks anymore. "John," she called after him.

John reluctantly turned around. He loved Mrs. Hudson's to bits, but everything was different with him and the world; something was off and it was killing him slowly. "Hello Mrs. Hudson," he said to her. "How are you doing?"

"I'm doing well," she told him. "Why don't you come in for some tea?"

John shook his head. He knew she still pitied him, they all did, no one understood what was happening to him. "You know I can't go back in there," he stated.

"We won't talk about it," Mrs. Hudson offered.

John could tell that she was desperate; she wanted the old John back. John knew though, that she couldn't remember the old John. She remembers a John that wasn't real. "I can't," he told her.

"Mr. Lestrade called the other day," Mrs. Hudson said. "He wanted to know if I've seen you lately."

John scowled. "I knew I shouldn't have come here," he scowled. He heard a car pull up behind him. He looked over his shoulder and saw the former DI climb out of the car. "You called him." John was growing angrier, he didn't want to deal with them; all he wanted to do was go home to try to forget like the rest of them. "Hello Lestrade, are you here to force me into therapy again?"

Lestrade paused. "John," he whispered, "why don't we go inside and have a talk." He placed his hand on John's elbow and tried to guide him towards the building.

John ripped his arm away. "I don't have anything to talk about," he spat. He wanted to leave so bad, but something was holding him back.

"Yes you do," Lestrade told him trying to grab his arm again.

"Are you going to tell me I'm crazy again?" John asked. "Are you going to tell me that nothing in my life is real?"

Lestrade stepped up close and grabbed his shoulders. "Listen to me," he hissed, his fingers digging in to his skin, "you're very sick. Do you understand me? You need help or something is going to happen to you. You're one of my friends John, I don't want to see you harmed."

"I am not sick," John said firmly. He wrenched himself away from the older man and started walking away. He stopped and spun on his heel. "He was real; I'm never going to turn my back on him." He twirled back around and started off towards his home.

John wished that they remembered. Sherlock Holmes wasn't a figment of his imagination, he was real. John remembered running next to him, eating with him, arguing with him. Everything was there, all the old memories they had together, but no one in the world could remember Sherlock.

The first time he found out that no one remembered Sherlock was when he was picking up his things from 221 B. Mrs. Hudson asked him where he was hiding for the past few days. John remembered telling her that he couldn't be at the flat because it reminded him of Sherlock. She just stared at him and asked who Sherlock was. He asked her some simple questions that she would have been able to answer like 'who was my flat mate?' but she told him that he lived alone and has for years.

Ever since then John's life spiraled down. He would try to talk about Sherlock with anyone but everyone would tell him they didn't know who that was. He was forced to see his therapist again by Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and even Mycroft, but he left because she didn't believe him either. He was alone.

X

Later that night, John was sitting on his stiff couch with a bottle of alcohol clenched in his hands. He started drinking when he got home. He only drank when things got out of hand. What happened to him earlier was a perfect example of things getting out of hand.

He was having a string of good days and knew something had to go bad. He didn't even mean to end up on Baker Street, but he knew the moment he was on it. The air around him changed and he almost felt happy. The street was so familiar. "Why did you have to die Sherlock?" he asked the air. He shut his eyes and took a large breath in. He could practically smell the genius now; the man seemed to always smell like the chemicals he worked with.

John opened his eyes and gazed at his bare walls. On the mantle above the fireplace was the skull that Sherlock loved to talk to whenever he noticed John wasn't around. Mrs. Hudson believed that it was John's and he had it because he was a doctor. He liked to watch it, and sometimes talk to it. It was something from Sherlock that he still had; it helped him to know for a fact that the consulting detective was real.

He gulped down the last of the liquid in the bottle and dropped it on the floor. He would pick it up when he wasn't drunk and actually cared. He lifted himself from the couch and made his way to the fridge for another drink.

A buzzing noise started in his ear. He rubbed it with his hands, trying to get it to stop but it wouldn't work. He shook his head and ignored it. He wasn't going get worked up over a stupid noise. He reached in to the fridge and grabbed another bottle.

John was halfway to the couch when the buzzing noise got louder. He squeezed his eyes shut and pressed a hand against the side of his head. He stumbled forward, his knee caught the coffee table and he fell to the ground.

The buzzing wouldn't stop. It started hurting his head. He tried to stand but his arm was shaking too much he couldn't stable himself long enough to get to his feet. He dropped the bottle and fell to his butt. He squeezed his head with both of his hands and clenched his teeth shut. A flash of white light burned his eyes, making his head burst with more pain.

Suddenly, everything stopped, leaving John in the dark and without sound. He blinked a few times before he felt bile rise in his throat. He emptied his stomach on to his carpet before blacking out.

**Well, tell me what you think. I know you don't have a lot so far and it seems like every Reichenbach fic but really give it a chance. It might change your mind when you get into later chapters. So, leave a review and either break my heart or give me a nice boost for the next chapter. That's all I have to say I believe, if I left anything out let me know. BYE!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Hello everybody! I've been in Ohio for the past week and haven't been able to really get on my computer much. I'm alone now, so I have free range to do whatever I want. So, I got this new chapter for anyone that wants it. I really hope you like it. See ya.**

John didn't want to look up at the well-dressed man who was sitting across from him. He's been around him enough to know what kind of face he was wearing, and he's had enough of disappointment. He hasn't moved or spoken to Mycroft Holmes since he woke up to find the man sitting in the chair like he belonged there.

Mycroft had a tendency to show up when John passed out. He would let himself in with the key he had made; John eventually stopped changing the locks, and prepared a cup of tea for the both of them. He was the easiest to handle out of his old friends, he wouldn't talk about much, and he would just sit there until John told him to leave. But with an incident like the day before something John knew something was going to be said.

The government official put his cup down. He crossed his legs and watched the blond closely. "I found you in your own sick," he said aloud. He picked at the strings on the old armchair. "You were lying face down in it. John," his voice actually sounded concern, "tell me what happened yesterday."

John knew that Lestrade already relayed the new information to the older Holmes brother. He just wanted to hear the story from him; he wanted to know why John went to Baker Street. "I don't want to," he told him. He knew he was being childish but he wasn't in the mood for them anymore. He wanted to curl up in the ball and sleep away the major hangover he was dealing with.

"If you don't tell me I'll have to take precautionary measures to ensure that what happened yesterday doesn't happen again," Mycroft informed him.

John didn't care. "Please," he let out, "just leave."

"Not today," Mycroft said. He stood from his chair and walked over to the skull. "Yesterday was a rare occurrence; you usually don't venture out that way. You were doing so well; I was actually starting to believe that you made the right choice to get out of therapy. I wouldn't want you to be put on medicine if you didn't have to be."

"I didn't mean to end up there," John told him. "Completely by accident. I was leaving when Mrs. Hudson asked me to come in. She must have called Lestrade before she came out because he showed up pretty quickly. We got in to a fight and I left, that's all that happened."

"Then you came home, and started drinking," Mycroft finished for him.

John ran a hand over his face and finally lifted his head. The mess he made the night before was missing and it smelled of pine, Mycroft had his men clean-up before John woke. "Why do you care anymore?" he asked him.

"We've known each other for a long time John," he told him. "I worry about your health, both physical and mental."

John grabbed the handle of his cup of tea and brought it to his lips. It was cold but it was better than nothing. "What do you want me to do?" he inquired. If he just went along with whatever Mycroft wanted him to do then he would be left alone.

Mycroft pulled a notebook from the inside of his suit jacket. He grabbed a white envelope from the pages and handed it to John. "I have set up a therapist to meet you here on Tuesdays and Thursdays after work. You don't have to talk to him if you don't want to, I'm paying for everything, but he's very skilled in what he does," he explained. "It's like an experiment to see if he can help. If he can't after a month then I'll cancel his visits."

John shook his head. "I don't want to see him," he told him. "There's nothing wrong with me."

"Then why do you believe I had a brother?" Mycroft asked. "Don't you think I would have remembered him? I have a very good memory; I know who's in my family."

John laughed; he didn't understand why he ever opened his mouth. "I'm not letting him in my home," he stated. He stood and stepped up next to Mycroft. He reached out his hand and ran his hand over the skull. "Do you know whose skull this was?"

"Yours John," Mycroft told him. "You got it in a small shop on a trip before you left for boot camp."

"No," John said, "it was your brothers. Do you see this indent on the side? Sherlock did that when he was waltzing around the flat, he accidentally dropped it. Now, if I was making up Sherlock why would that memory seem so real?"

"Why would you make him my brother?" Mycroft asked. "John, ten months ago you've changed. You were a regular man with a job and a dream to get married. Out of nowhere you made up a man who doesn't exist. Something is wrong inside your head; all the memories seem real because you made yourself believe it was real."

John ran his fingers over the envelope. He couldn't stop the words from repeating themselves in his head. They hit him hard; he heard them before but something was different. Maybe he was just making Sherlock up; maybe he was truly mentally unstable. "I'll try him out for one month," he said.

Mycroft smiled, John still didn't feel comfortable when Mycroft smiled. "Thank you John," Mycroft said.

John watched him; Mycroft was giving him a look that definitely showed lack of trust. John understood why the other man didn't trust him; he's been trying to get out of everything he put him in. "Yep," John snapped "you can leave now."

Mycroft nodded, he still didn't look pleased but he was going to leave it at that. He grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair and his umbrella, placing both on his arm. He walked to the door and turned back to him. John nodded once, a sign that he was alright; Mycroft nodded back and left.

John watched him leave. When he heard the door shut he shuddered. Mycroft may have had better manners than Sherlock but he would pick the younger brother over the elder any day. He let out a sigh and turned back to the mantel. He came face to face with the hollow sockets of the white skull. "You don't like him either do you?" he asked.

The buzzing started again in his ears. He covered it and tried to message if away. The noise stopped soon after; John breathed out and shook his head. He wished he knew what was happening to him.

He licked his lips and walked over to his arm chair. He plopped himself down in it and groaned as his body settled itself. He ran his fingers over the edge of the envelope. He ran his finger under the unfastened flap and lifted it to get the papers out.

John read over the information slowly. The man's name was Doctor Richard Holly. The picture showed a man with light brown hair, about six feet tall, and a large belly. It had how many years he was a doctor and what he specialized in.

He pushed the papers back in and dropped the envelope on the coffee table. He glanced at the clock and noticed that he was late from work; Mycroft usually took care of everything for him when he found John in such a state that he did that morning.

John shut his eyes and leaned back in the chair. The picture of Sherlock falling was on replay in his head. He wasn't sure if he was making the right decision to see Dr. Holly. He knew Sherlock must have been real; he wouldn't make up such a horrific accident if he wasn't real.

John shook his head, got up, and grabbed the empty cup. He walked in to the kitchen and started to make some more tea. He had three days to see if he was making the right choice. Until then, he would try to go back to normal, where he didn't think about Sherlock or his old friends. As long as he could keep them off his mind he would begin to look less insane.

**How did you like it? Was it good, bad, something in between? If you don't tell me then I won't know. I don't know when I'll get another chapter up; I have my other stories to worry about now. I'll leave you all be, have a good night/day where ever you are. BYE!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Alright everyone! Guess what? I got you a new chapter! I'm in a really good mood right now and I don't know why. Oh well. I hope you enjoy this chapter. Good luck! See ya. **

John let out a sigh as he dropped the files he was carrying at the front desk. "Sorry for this Jeffery," he said with a small smile. "I would do it but I have something important that I can't miss."

Jeff shot him a quick smile. "It's alright Dr. Watson," he told him. "You always file them yourself, it's the least I could do."

"I don't think I can thank you enough," John stated. "Although, I'm not looking forward to my something; I didn't really have a say in it."

"Girlfriend?" Jeff questioned with a playful smile.

"More like a pushy old friend," he huffed. He checked his watch and cursed himself. "I got to go, I'm running late."

"Bye Doctor Watson," Jeff called after him as John left the hospital.

X

John hurried down the sidewalk. He didn't want to see Dr. Holly but if he was late he might get a call from Mycroft later and he didn't want to deal with him either. He had to wonder if that was the way Mycroft use to treat Sherlock. He could understand why Sherlock didn't want him around all the time.

He paused at the end of his street and made a face. Dr. Holly was standing at his door waiting for him to buzz him in. He started to jog towards the man. "Dr. Holly?" he questioned as he got close enough.

"Ah," Holly said as he turned, "you must be Doctor John Watson."

"Yes," John told him. "Sorry I was late; I got caught up at work." He shuffled past the man with a smile to unlock the door. He looked back before he opened the door, and quickly made his way up the stairs. "Would you like something to drink?" he asked as he entered his flat.

"No thank you," Holly told him with a polite smile.

John nodded and slinked in to the kitchen. He quickly got himself something to drink and went back to the living room. He saw Dr. Holly looking at the skull on the mantle; he was about to touch it when John said, "Please, don't touch that."

Holly's hand shot back down to his side. "Is this skull important to you?" he asked and he sat down in one of the chairs.

"Did Mycroft tell you about the skull?" John asked back.

Holly pulled out a small notebook and started writing something down. "Mycroft didn't tell me much about you," he informed him. "He only told me that you were struggling with delusions."

John bobbed his head; he leaned forward slightly trying to see what was being written on the paper. He knew he shouldn't but he wanted to know what the other man thought. "You heard enough then," he told him.

"Can you tell me about this Sherlock character?" Holly questioned.

John ground his teeth together; he didn't even know why he was bothering anymore. The therapist wasn't going to believe him no matter what he said. "What do you want to know?" he asked. He stared at Holly, waiting for him to say something, with a straight face.

Holly looked at him, almost the same expression. "What does he look like?" he asked.

"He was tall," John told him with a fond smile. "A lot taller than me. He had dark brown, almost black, hair. He always wore a suit unless he was moping around the house because he didn't have something to stimulate his mind.

"You're speaking in past tense," Holly pointed out, "why?"

John moved his eyes towards the ground. "Didn't Mycroft tell you?" he asked instead of answering.

Holly scribbled something down before giving him a response. "Mycroft did tell me everything," he told him, "only the bare minimal."

He swallowed the growing lump in his throat. "Sherlock is dead," he stated, "that's why it's in the past tense."

Holly hummed. "How did he die?" he asked.

"He jumped off the top of Saint Bartholomew's," John said. "Moriarty killed himself too."

"Moriarty?" Holly questioned. "Who's Moriarty?"

John laughed; he doesn't really talk about Moriarty with anyone. He didn't want to remember Moriarty; it would be okay if he was never real; maybe none of this would have happened to John. "James Moriarty, criminal mastermind. He was Sherlock's arch-nemesis, made our lives miserable."

"Arch-nemesis?" Holly asked with a raised eyebrow. "That sounds a bit childish don't you think?"

John shrugged his shoulders. "In my opinion they were both children that were looking to have fun," he admitted. "Listen Dr. Holly, I know you don't believe me or anything but these two men, they were real, whatever you say won't change my mind."

"Dr. Watson," Holly started, "I'm here because your friend Mycroft was worried about you. He wants me to make sure you go back to your normal self."

John rubbed his head in frustration. "You see, I'm not really friends with Mycroft," he told him. "I mean, we're two people who knew the same person and worried about them. Now, I would understand if he was worried about me because of his brother's death, but he's not!" He was yelling now. He didn't want to get angry but it was the only thing he could do at the moment. "My best friend Sherlock Holmes was alive, he was real, and I'm not making him up!"

The buzzing in his ears started up again. He tried to ignore it but it kept getting louder. "I want you to leave," he whispered to the other doctor. "I want you to leave right now."

"Are you okay Dr. Watson?" Holly asked concerned for the blond.

John gave him a forced smile and nodded. "I'm fine," he told him. "I would like it if today's session ended."

"Okay," Holly complied, "I'll see you next time yes?"

John waved his hand. "Yeah," he said. He stood up, intent on showing the man out, but almost fell. He held up his hand to Holly waving off his help and continued to the door. "See you next time."

Holly pulled out his card and handed it to John. "If you ever need me in between sessions, just call me," he told him. "Bye."

John nodded his head and shut the door. He slumped against the door and held his head between his hands. "What is happening to me?" he questioned the air. He bit his lip trying to release the pain in his head. He looked towards the kitchen, thinking a beer could help, but decided against it for once. He pushed himself off the door and staggered to the bathroom. Aspirin would have to do.

X

John padded his way in to the living room after having a nightmare about Sherlock, and plopped down in his favorite armchair. He looked around the darkened room and let out a sigh; he really was a wreck. He ran a hand through his hair; it was longer than it had been in a long time. He didn't care though; he didn't have to keep up good appearances for anyone.

He yawned and caught sight of the skull. He lifted himself out of the chair and walked over to it. He laid his head against the mantle. "I know I'm crazy for talking to you but," he paused and shut his eyes against his tears, "I think you're the only one that really believes me."

He chuckled quietly. He hooked his finger through the hollow eye sockets and slid the skull off its resting place. "You'll protect me from the bad dreams," he said. He knew it was childish, but that's what he needed at the moment, just something to keep him grounded, and to chase away all the bad thoughts.

He crawled back in to his bed and placed the skull on the other pillow. "Good night," he said and fell asleep.

**I'm going to tell you now, I'm not a therapist, and I do not know what goes on in the sessions. I've only ever been to family counseling and that was years ago. But don't worry you won't be seeing much of Holly any way. So, tell me what you think. I would really appreciate reviews from you guys. It helps to get them, it really does. That's all I have to say. BYE!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Guess what everyone! I have this new chapter for you. It has taken me three times to write this, so I hope you enjoy it. See ya.**

John stood on top of Saint Bart's, watching the dark clouds pass slowly. He brought the bottle in his hands to his lips and let the bitter liquid slide down his throat. He was daring the sky to rain down on London; it would make his day perfect. "I can't do this anymore," he told the air around him. "I can't go on knowing that I'm the only person that remembers you. I don't want to; I want to live a normal life where I'm not the insane one. I want you back but if you were never here than I want to forget about you." He let out a laugh but it turned in to a strangled sob. He covered his mouth to stop the horrible sound from coming out.

"I think it would be easier too, even if you were real, to just forget about you. I can't deal with the pain you've caused me when you jumped off this building," he admitted. "I go to sleep every night with that on replay. I can't get it out of my mind and it has to stop. Sherlock, you have to go."

The door behind him opened making him turn to look at who was intruding on his private talk. It was Molly; she looked timid as she stepped closer to John. "Are you okay?" she questioned with a small smile.

John tried to give her a smile but he couldn't hold it. "I'm not going to jump if that's what you're wondering," he told her. "The names John by the way." He knew she didn't recognize him, if she did she would have said his name.

"Hi John," she said, "I'm Molly." She glanced to the bottle in John's hands before looking back up to his face. "If you don't mind me asking, why you are up here?"

John licked his lips and turned back to the view of the sky "I was just saying good bye to an old friend," he told her. He wiped a few tears from his face.

Molly stood by his side and looked up. "Did he die here?" she asked.

"Sort of," John let out. He took another gulp of his drink, finishing it off, and dropped it to his feet.

She reached out to touch his arm. John flinched away from her fingers. "Why do you have to say good bye?" she asked.

John nodded; he shut his eyes and imagined himself in Sherlock's shoes, standing on the edge about to jump. It made his chest ache with so much pain. "I have to," he told her. "If I don't I won't make it much longer. I have to forget him, because everyone else did. I can't keep carrying him with me everywhere I go."

Molly nodded. "I understand," she told him. "It seems like everyone has already forgot my dad. He only died a few months ago, but it seems like he was never around."

"Have you ever heard of the name Sherlock Holmes?" he asked. He wasn't sure why he asked the question, it was stupid of him to assume that she would have.

"No," Molly answered.

"That's my friend's name," John told her. He pointed to the edge of the building. "He killed himself by jumping off this building. I talked to him before he jumped, even watched him fall to the ground." He shook his head and rubbed his nose. "He was a good man. He really was, not many people liked him. I lived with him for goodness sake; I got the worse end of it all. He made me angry, happy, sad, confused, and he made me human again. I couldn't have asked for a better person to do it either. I told everyone I know that I would never forget him but I have to go against my word."

"How?" Molly asked. "He seemed to be something big in your life, how can you forget such a man?"

John turned to look her in the eye. "I'm going to wake up every morning telling myself that it was all a dream until I start believing it," he stated. "It's simple really, my therapist will be happy to hear that I decided he wasn't real."

Molly swallowed and stared at him for a second. She thought about what he said. John started walking away. "Was he real?" she inquired.

John paused to turn on his heel. He smiled at her and tilted his head to the side. "Was who real?" he asked.

The clouds finally busted and let out the rain they were holding back all day. Molly looked up once as the drops started hitting her head. She looked back down at the man and saw that he was walking away. She wanted to reach out to him, grasp him by the hand and tell him it was okay but she didn't because she understood. She could tell that he was broken. John lost something special the day Sherlock took his life, she understood that. She wished with all her heart that he could fix himself, so he didn't have to erase someone from his mind so he could move on. She wanted him to live in peace.

She bent down and picked up his empty bottle he left behind. She walked over to the edge of the building and looked to the ground. She saw John exit the building and enter a dark car. She smiled and walked back to the door. She told herself that she was going to visit her dad's gave later on that day for the first time since his funeral.

**I know, I know, it's shorter than usual. I couldn't really think of what to put in here but I wanted to show you how desperate John really was. I don't have to explain to you what John wants; he said it plenty of times in this chapter. I also had to add Molly in there. I also didn't want to put too much in there because I was afraid of ruining it. I'm really bad at writing things like this I guess. Well, if you liked it please leave a review, even if you didn't. Anyway, I should get going. BYE!**


	5. Chapter 5

**Alright, I got this idea while I was doing something that I can't remember at the moment. I think it's a good addition to the story as whole. I hope you enjoy this new chapter. See ya. **

Mycroft dropped his briefcase on his desk as he let out a sigh. He got no sleep the night before because he was trying to finish his paperwork, most of it in his case unfinished. He would have had them done if he didn't receive a call from a very important man in a foreign government. The call lasted longer than he anticipated and he didn't spend any of his time at home sleeping. He settled himself in his chair, pulling his cup of tea closer to him. He checked the time to see how long he had 'til Anthea came in to give him his schedule.

He took a considerate sip of his tea before he started straightening out his desk. He picked up his pen and started on the strenuous paperwork. He lifted his head when he heard a knock on the door. "Come in," he said calmly, not looking up from what he was reading.

"Good morning sir," Anthea said upon entering the room.

"Good morning," Mycroft replied.

Anthea gathered some of the work from his desk so she could file it later. "You have a meeting with the Prime Minister for breakfast at ten," she informed him. "At twelve you have the lunch with your mother."

Mycroft smiled, he had one thing to look forward to. "Is that all?" he questioned.

"Well, Doctor Holly called," Anthea told him, "he wished to speak with you. I told him that you weren't in yet and I would have you call him when you arrived."

"Of course," Mycroft stated calmly. Ever since the breakthrough therapy session, when John admitted he made Sherlock Holmes up, John became even more distant. He slipped in to a heavier drinking habit that could out due his sister, and missed more work than he should. The government official slowly took in a breath picking up the phone to call the Holly. He looked up at his assistant with a questioning look.

"That is all," Anthea stated, "you have the rest of the day cleared after your lunch."

He dismissed her before he dialed the number. He waited patiently for the other man to pick up. He spent the time thinking of the different reasons he would need to talk, he didn't think John could get any worse than he already was.

"Doctor Richard Holly speaking," he answered.

"Doctor Holly, good morning," Mycroft said, "it's Mycroft Holmes. I heard you wanted to speak with me."

"Ah, Mr. Holmes," Holly sounded anxious, "I met with Doctor Watson yesterday. I believe his new condition has gotten worse."

Mycroft dropped his pen to cover his face with his hand. He shut his eyes, preparing himself for what was coming. "How so?" he asked.

Holly let out a long breath before answering, "In the last few sessions I noticed he was saying less and less to the point of not saying a single word." He paused; Mycroft could hear him moving around in the background. "I spent two hours with him yesterday; he didn't move or say anything from his spot facing the window. I'm afraid he is just folding in on himself, blocking everything around him so he won't have to deal with what's going on. Eventually, he won't respond to anything or anyone, basically becoming a zombie."

"I understand Doctor," Mycroft said. "What do you suggest we do?"

"I think he needs someone around him constantly," Holly explained. "If there is someone to help him night and day, someone he can talk to, then he could possibly get better. I suggest a hospital, that way if something goes wrong there will be a health care professional close by."

Mycroft hummed. "I'll take that in to consideration," he told him. "Have a good day Doctor Holly."

"You too Mr. Holmes," Holly said back.

Mycroft hung up then started dialing John's number. It rang out a few times before going to voicemail. He sat through the polite message from John, when he heard the beep he started, "Hello John, I got a call from Doctor Holly not too long ago. I'm going to come around your flat to see if you're alright after I get out of work. Good-bye." He shut his phone, placing it back in his pocket.

He let out a puff of hot air. He concluded that his day was not going to be a good one.

X

Mycroft checked his watch for the time. He had a few minutes before he had to meet his mother for lunch. He called John again; he knew for a fact that if he went to work then he would be on his break already. He received the voicemail again; he hung up in frustration. He pressed a button on his intercom to get Anthea's attention.

"Your car is ready sir," Anthea told him through the line.

Mycroft stood, gathering his jacket and umbrella so he could leave. He made his way out to the car and got in to head to the restaurant.

Once he reached the restaurant he was relieved to see his mother sitting at the reserved table. He walked over to her, steps slow and precise, just like she taught him. He bent down, when he reached her, to kiss her cheek. "Mummy," he greeted her with a smile, "how nice to see you again."

"Likewise," Lucile Holmes stated. "It's been too long Mycroft. We haven't had lunch like this in years. How have you been lately? Haven't been working yourself too hard have you?"

Mycroft shook his head. "I never work myself too hard," he informed her.

"Are you ignoring the first question?" Lucile inquired.

Mycroft chuckled. "Of course not," he told her, "I have been good." He gave her another smile but it was forced. He couldn't keep his mind off John. "How have you been?"

Lucile sipped her drink slowly. "I'm getting old," she laughed. She watched her son closely, noticing the worry lines that marked his forehead, and the slight twitch of his fingers. "What's on your mind? If you don't tell me I know ways I can get it out of you."

Mycroft looked in his lap before back up at his mother; he knew he could never hide anything from her. "It's John," he didn't need to explain any further, Lucile was aware of John's situation.

Lucile instantly frowned. "John was such a good boy growing up," she said. "His mother would be crushed if she saw him like he is now, bless her soul."

"He's gotten worse," Mycroft told her. "It seemed that he was coming out of his delusion but now his therapist is telling me he digressing."

Lucile frowned as she shook her head. "I remember when his mother started working with us," she reminisced, "she was pregnant with him. You were only seven. You took to him fast; you were like his older brother."

Mycroft nodded. He had to admit that he felt like John was family, he was the younger brother he never had; contrary to John's belief. He grew up with him in the house, constantly there.

Mrs. Watson worked for them as a maid; she needed a job after her husband died in the war and left her unemployed and with a child on the way. Lucile told her that she could live with them and could start work after John was born. Mycroft was glued to his side almost the whole time he was an infant; making sure he was okay, calculating everything that he did, even helped change a diaper a few times. They weren't considered part of the help, they were family.

"I'm doing my best to help him now, I'm not sure it's enough," Mycroft confessed.

Lucile reached across the table, taking her youngest son's hand. "If I know one thing, it's that you'll never give up, and that's enough," she told him.

Mycroft squeezed her hand, giving her a smile. "Enough of that now," he said, "I say we order our lunch and enjoy the rest of the meal."

X

Mycroft instructed his driver to go to John's address after he dropped of Lucile at her home. He wanted to check up on him to see if he was alright. He pulled up outside the flat; he glanced up as he got out of the car only to see John sitting in front of the window. He walked to the front door, produced a spare key he had made, and opened the door. He climbed the stairs all the way to John's floor.

As he entered the flat he saw that it was littered with garbage. Mycroft wrinkled his nose in disgust but marched on, towards the doctor. As he stood by his side he glanced down taking in the younger man's appearance. His clothes were old, he had a small beard growing from not shaving, and he had dark circles under his eyes. He had been up for at least three days, with little sleep. He opted out on saying anything; he fixed his gaze across the street where John was looking.

"I'm fine," John's voice was gruff. "I no longer believe your brother was real, I'm fine. You don't need to worry about me any longer."

Mycroft noticed John's head twitched to the side. "You're coming to live with me," he informed him.

John shook his head frantically. "I'm fine," he told him again. "I'm fine." He kept repeating the words like a broken record.

Mycroft didn't say a word after that. He just stood there, looking out the window, listening as John mumbled to himself.

X

It was hours before John made himself so exhausted that he fell asleep. Mycroft let out a deep sigh and pulled out his phone. He phoned up Anthea, requesting her to bring a car over for John and him. He then grabbed a bag from a closet so he could pack John some clothes. He would get his men to come later and pick up around the flat and get more of John's things.

Anthea arrived shortly after he packed and took the bag down to the car. Mycroft enlisted the drivers help to get John down to the car without waking him up.

They successfully got the man down to the car and in to the back seat. He was sitting between Anthea and Mycroft, both of them trying to keep him from falling. Mycroft shut his eyes, John's voice echoing in his head. He thought over the last few months, they haunted him. He had to watch his friend lose control of his own mind, he watched him as he ruined himself. He was determined to stop it from going any further. He was going to help John move away from the edge he was dangerously close to falling off, hitting rock bottom hard and not being able to get back up, or he would die trying.

**So, I needed to show you how Mycroft and John know each other. I hope you liked it. Review me your views, I'll gladly read them. Anyway, have a nice time. BYE!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Well I had a lot of time on my hands for the last week. I have a new chapter for you all. I hope you enjoy it. See ya. **

John Watson woke up in a strange place. It wasn't any room at his flat or one that he has been to before. His head was pounding and his vision was blurry from sleep. He sat up to take a better look around.

It was a nice room. The walls were a dark shade of red with paintings hanging on them, and a small window next to the bed he was on. There was a book case with every shelf filled to his right and next to a door was a dresser on his left. On the other side of the door was a chair with a pile of clothes on it.

John figured they were his; they looked like his at least. He pushed back the heavy covers and swung his feet to the ground. It was carpeted so his bare feet weren't overwhelmed with the sudden change in temperature. He waddled over to the pile of clothes and noticed a note on top of them. He rubbed his eyes to clear them up before he started reading the note.

'John, take a shower, shave, change your clothes and meet me in the kitchen.'

The doctor let out a breath. He folded the paper in two before he shoved it in his pocket. He picked up his clothes and looked at the door in front of him. He knocked on it nervously before he confirmed that no one was in there, or that it was the hallway. He opened it, relieved that it was the bathroom.

He started to undress from his dirty clothes. He caught sight of himself in the mirror and groaned. A beard was taking over the lower half of his face, dark circles were under his eyes, and his hair was sticking up in all sorts of directions. He looked as if he just rolled out of the streets. He ran his hand over his facial hair and shuttered at the touch. He hated having a beard. He remembered growing one when he was a teen; it didn't turn out well for him. He opened the medicine cabinet and saw a razor and the shaving cream. He shut it with a smile and continued to undress to get in the shower.

X

John felt refreshed, he still had no idea where he was but he had a clearer head now that he was clean and more awake. He made sure that he didn't miss any spots on his chin. He exited the bathroom from a different door and found himself in the hallway.

From the interior of the household he could tell whoever was housing him must have had some cash to spare. He wasn't sure how he was supposed to find the kitchen. Every turn he took there were more doors and turns.

He was lucky when he stumbled upon the kitchen. He saw Mycroft standing at the counter reading the paper. John took a step back in surprise. Did Mycroft really take it up to the next level of kidnapping? "Why am I here?" he questioned, his voice had a hint of anger in it.

Mycroft looked up from the paper. "You were killing yourself quicker than before so I decided to step in," he explained. "I was told that someone had to keep a constant eye on you. I took it upon myself to take you to my home and watch you."

"What about Sherlock?" John questioned. He watched as Mycroft's eyes widened just a fraction. He squeezed his eyes shut in frustration. He was supposed to be forgetting about him, and even if he wasn't Sherlock was dead. "Sorry," he mumbled. "I didn't mean to ask that. It was just a slip of the tongue."

A headache started again just behind John's eyes. He didn't know how he forgot about the last few months. How he would even think that Sherlock was alive still. It was preposterous. He was still tired, still in a dream state. That's what he was going to tell himself anyway.

Mycroft stepped forward, he almost looked like he was going to touch John but he didn't. "I brought you here so you can get better," he stated. "It's for your health as I said many times before. I called Lestrade, he's going to keep you company during the day or when I'm away. I don't want you alone in the house."

"Do you think I'm going to harm myself?" John questioned, raising his eyebrows.

Mycroft folded up the paper silently and tucked it under his arm. "You already have Dr. Watson," he told him. "You failed to eat or sleep for three days. If I don't have someone here to take care of you like a dog you could forget to do it yourself."

John clenched his fist. "I am not a dog," he hissed. "I don't need to be fed, and walked. I'm a grown man who can take care of himself."

"Clearly," Mycroft said in a clipped tone. "Lestrade's in the living room. I have to go to the office. Don't forget to have breakfast."

John had to keep himself from taking a swing at Mycroft. He didn't go through all he did to be called a dog. He was conforming himself to their beliefs, and he was being treated worse than he was before when he tried to forget. He waited till the government official was out of the room before slamming his fist down on the countertop.

His stomach growled loudly. He had to eat despite his want to disobey Mycroft. He shuffled over to the fridge to find food.

"Hey John," Lestrade said from the other side of the room. "How are you feeling?"

John didn't turn around. He was angry and was going to let it all pass before he tried to make small talk. He reached in to the fridge and grabbed the carton of eggs. He made his way over to the stove to start cooking. He watched the former DI out the corner of his eyes. The man was just leaning against the wall waiting for him to speak. He wasn't planning on talking for a while.

Lestrade let out a sigh and nodded. "The cold shoulder," he said, "I see. Well, I'm going to talk to you anyway. I wish you would speak to me. I really miss going out and having a few drinks every now and then."

John turned sharply on his heel. "When did we meet Lestrade?" he asked.

Lestrade was taken aback at the sudden question. "You really don't know," he marveled. John just stared at him. Lestrade shook his head. "We met three years ago. I was shot while on a job and you patched me up. You were the only person that came and saw me every day, even when you had days off. I have you to thank for keeping me from going insane." His voice dwindled off on the last word. He looked away a little ashamed that he even said it.

John nodded and turned back to his eggs. "Sounds like me," he mumbled more to himself than the other man. "Could you fill me in on how you got fired also? I'm still a bit foggy about all this stuff."

Lestrade chuckled, he thought John was joking. "I was getting too old," he answered honestly; "I couldn't catch the criminals they wanted me to catch."

John set his plate at the table and sat down. "That's stinks," he told him. "I think I'm going to get fired soon. I don't remember going to work at all this week."

"You didn't," Lestrade told him. "From what Mycroft told me you didn't go to work for three days, then you were out for two days here. You looked like crap too."

"Thanks," John rolled his eyes.

Lestrade laughed again. "There's a game on today," he said jerking his head towards the living room. "Mycroft may not use the large television but we could."

John was thankful for the unasked question. "I haven't watched a match in forever," he admitted. He lifted his plate from the table and followed Greg to the living room.

**Looks like he's going to get better, but you know what they say; it's always calm before the storm. I hope you enjoyed this so far, leave me a review with you wonderful thoughts, good or bad. BYE!**


	7. Chapter 7

**Hey guys. How is everything going? Well I decided to get a chapter for all of you. I hope you enjoy it. See ya. **

Over the next few days John hung out with Greg. They didn't talk about anything from before. It never came up in conversation, John would catch Lestrade giving him a weird look occasionally but that was it and the doctor would handle that. He ignored Mycroft as best he could. He didn't want to see him or speak to him. When the government official came home John went up to the guest bedroom. He would wait until he knew for sure that he was in his own room before exiting and eating something for dinner.

On his fourth night there John was getting ready for bed. He made himself a quick sandwich in the kitchen and he was set for the night. He climbed into his bed and looked around the room. All of his things from his other flat were there. Mycroft had them removed and brought back to his house. John had a feeling he wouldn't be going back there.

John settled under his covers and turned off the bedside lamp. The moment his head hit the pillow the buzzing noise started again in his ears. He groaned and tried to stop it by covering his head with the other pillow. It only dulled the noise. He was getting so used to it not happening, it been a week since he last had an attack. He clutched the pillow closer to his head and shut his eyes. He wasn't waiting to sleep; he was just going to deal with it.

X

John didn't know when he slipped into a dream but he did. He knew it was a dream, he felt to at ease for it to be real life. He actually felt happy.

He was standing on top of Saint Bart's overlooking the street below. It felt familiar, he could picture the first day and the last day he saw Sherlock here. He heard footsteps behind him and watched as Sherlock approached him.

"You called me up here," Sherlock said as he stood next to him on the ledge.

John looked over him and nodded. "Why did you jump?" he asked. He didn't sound sad, it surprised him.

Sherlock slid his eyes over to him. John swallowed; he hasn't been under that intense gaze in such a long time. He missed it. "It was written," he told him.

John gave him a confused look. "What do you mean?" he questioned.

"It was written," Sherlock repeated.

John opened his mouth to repeat the question but Sherlock was gone. He looked around the rooftop; there was no trace of him. He shut his eyes, a sick feeling in his stomach. He looked over the edge and saw Sherlock on the ground with his blood pooling around him.

"Sherlock!" John yelled down at the man. He turned quickly on his heel and ran for the door. He tripped forward over something he couldn't see.

John sat up, breathing heavily. He blinked a few times and let out a sigh as he noticed he was in his room. He shut his eyes again and lay back down. He calmed himself down by counting down from ten slowly.

He wiped the few tears that were running down his face. He started to hear a faint noise. He thought it was Mycroft at first but when he listened harder he could tell it was a violin being played. He recognized it as one that he would always hear after waking from a nightmare.

He opened his eyes finally and saw a dull light filling the room. He sat up, confused and saw something he never thought he would see again. He saw his friend playing the violin with his eyes shut. He was paler than before and he was wearing ridiculous clothing.

John quickly rubbed his eyes, he wasn't sure he could trust them. He was gone though, when he removed his hands from his eyes. He sighed; he knew it was too good to be true. It was probably a result from his dream, he still felt light headed from being in it.

He flipped the covers off and climbed out of bed. He made his way blindly through the dark hallway to the kitchen. He was surprised to see the light on. He thought about turning to go back to bed but he couldn't. He needed a drink. He walked into the kitchen and saw Mycroft leaning against the counter. He set his jaw and continued to the fridge. "Don't you have any beer?" he grumbled.

"You wouldn't be able to drink it if I did have beer," Mycroft told him.

John groaned. "I really need it," he told him. "Just one drink is all I'm looking for." He hated how helpless he sounded.

Mycroft looked at him. He took a sip of his water and shook his head. "Your nightmare was that bad," he stated. "Was it about him?"

John turned away. "Why did I even come in here," he growled to himself. "No, it wasn't about him," he lied.

Mycroft made a disapproving noise. "You can have a glass of water John," he told him, "that's it."

John wanted to cry. He just wanted to get drunk and forget the dream, why couldn't Mycroft let him. He grabbed glass anyway and filled it with water. He gulped it down in one go. He put the glass down heavily and glared at Mycroft. He turned and left.

Mycroft followed close behind him. "I worry is all John," he said. "I am your friend."

John swirled around on him. "If you were my friend you would let me have a drink," he told him.

"That's why I'm not letting you drink," Mycroft told him smoothly. "You'll destroy yourself."

"Then let me destroy myself," John barked. "I have nothing to live for. I'm a pathetic little man that has to be dependent on everyone. Everyone believes I'm crazy, and I can't handle it anymore. Just let me drink 'til I'm dead. At least I would die happy." John knew he sounded ridiculous but he didn't want to go through with this anymore. His dream put something in his head and he wanted to just forget that it happened.

Mycroft stared at him. He kept his face straight as he nodded. "I can't let you die happy then," he said.

"Thanks Mycroft," John snapped. He shook his head and went into his room, slamming the door behind him.

**So, did you like it? I don't usually put dreams in here but it was needed. Drop by; leave a review I would love to read them. Tell me what you think I don't bite. BYE!**


	8. Chapter 8

**Hey guys, what's up? I know I haven't updated in a while but I am now so yay! Right? Anyway I have this new chapter if you all would like to read it. See ya. **

It had been a week since John had the dream. He tried to put it out of his head but found out he couldn't. Once he laid his eyes on his best friend he couldn't get the image out of his head. He tried drinking it away, it never worked before, but Mycroft got rid of the liquor. He was forced to suffer with it, every time he shut his eyes he was reminded that he was in a world where Sherlock didn't exist.

John was sitting next to Lestrade, clinging to the last thing that could clear his mind, tea. He took in the scent as he watched the television. Lestrade had been quiet most of the day. He had been since Mycroft told him he fell back into old habits. He set down the cup and stood up. Lestrade stood up quickly, his eyes wide. "Relax, I have to pee," he told him and moved around him. "You can stay here if you don't want to watch me."

Lestrade smiled and laughed nervously. "Sorry," he sighed. "Mycroft has me on edge with all his talk." He waved his hand and fell back on the couch. "Carry on." John shook his head and made his way to the bathroom.

When he was going back to the living room he noticed a warm glow coming from his room. He licked his lips and looked around before he pushed the door fully open. He saw Sherlock again, this time at a desk writing frantically. He rubbed his eyes but the image didn't go away. He was sure he finally lost it.

Sherlock stood up pressing down on an envelope and turned. He dropped the letter his eyes going wide. "John," he let out.

John swallowed hard, tears coming to his eyes. "What is happening to me?" he asked himself. "I'm seeing and hearing things, I'm insane."

Sherlock shook his head and stepped closer to John. "No, no you aren't," he told him. "If you can hear me or see me it's not because you're insane. Oh thank god, I never thought I would make contact."

"What do you mean?" John asked. He was going to humor himself for a bit; he was going to let himself forget that he might be insane. "What are you talking about? Why are you here? You're dead."

Sherlock nodded, his hands reached out for John but quickly dropped to his side. "That's the thing," he smiled, "I died, but I'm not dead."

"Sherlock, you're not making sense," John informed him. 'Like always,' he thought with an odd smile.

"I was…" Sherlock disappeared.

John stared in shock as he left again. The room was suddenly colder, the glow gone. He felt a lump forming in his throat, he reached a hand out where Sherlock's hand was only moments ago, wishing to feel his warmth.

"John?"

John twirled around, expecting to see Sherlock, his mind not registering as Lestrade's. He frowned and shook his head. That was just his imagination, Sherlock wasn't real, and if he was he was dead. "Yeah?" he eventually asked coming out of his stupor.

"You okay?" Lestrade asked.

John nodded, looking back at the empty space in his room. "I'm fine," he said. He walked out of the room and back to the living room. He sat back on the couch and flipped aimlessly through the channels. He could feel Lestrade's eyes on him throughout the day.

X

John found himself drawn to the only thing that he had left of Sherlock, the skull. It had been a few days since he had the hallucination. He had it on the bed in front of him; he was staring at the soulless orbs where the eyes used to be. "Sherlock," he laughed, not sure why he started the conversation with his name, "I've been having a rough time dealing with everything. People think I'm insane, I'm even starting to believe it myself." He ran his fingers over the smooth bone.

"Mycroft is being insufferable," he continued, "getting rid of the only thing that helps. I sound like my sister, haven't seen her in a while. Maybe I should call her." He hooked his fingers through the eye holes and lifted the skull as he turned on his back. He dropped it on his chest and saw Mycroft standing in the door as he looked at it. "Hello Mycroft."

Mycroft looked like he just got in from the office. He hadn't even noticed that Lestrade left; he locked himself in the room when he came over. He didn't even question how Mycroft got the door open. "Hello John," he replied. "How was your day?"

"You're not going to try to figure out yourself?" John asked. "Come on, you should be able to do this."

Mycroft's were cold as they darted around the room. "You've done nothing but sit there talking to that thing," he said pointing to the skull on his chest with his umbrella. "Today seems to have been better than the ones you've recently been having."

John didn't show any emotion he was having. He rolled back onto his stomach. He etched the teeth with his finger, a few missing. "Is there something you wanted?" he asked.

"Would you like to go on a vacation with me?" Mycroft asked.

John scrunched his eyebrows together. "What do you mean, 'go on a vacation' with you?"

"I was planning on spending a week with mummy and want you to come," Mycroft told him. "It's not a question actually, whether you say you want to go or not, you're going."

"Then why come in here and tell me?"

Mycroft made a face at John. "To warn you that we're leaving in two weeks' time," he stated. "I want you to be ready."

"Fine," John huffed. He shut his eyes, could see Sherlock, and took in a deep breath. "I'll be ready in two weeks. You can leave now."

"Very well," Mycroft nodded and shut the door.

John waited to hear the noise of him walking down the hall but heard nothing. He opened his eyes again and climbed off the bed. He changed into his pajamas and slipped into the bed again.

He propped the skull on the pillow next to him and stared at it. The infinite smile on his face warming his chest a bit. 'Maybe everything will be okay,' he thought with a smile of his. "Good night Sherlock," he mumbled. He listened hard for the reply, building his hope up that he would hear one. When nothing came but the small noise of the clock in the room he felt his heart drop.

**Oh, how was that? Please tell me what you thought; I wait for your reviews. We will find out what happens next on the next episode of The Book Maker! BYE!**


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